


Gone This Morning

by quirkysubject



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, First Meetings, Gen, Happy Ending, Heartbreak, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Men Crying, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Break Up, Pre-Queen (Band), Shippy Gen, Smile (Band) Era, Smoking, Strangers to Friends, Vomiting, a hint of pining, late 60s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27726919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkysubject/pseuds/quirkysubject
Summary: All Freddie wanted was a carefree night out - chat with his friends, listen to some decent music and forget about the depressing fact that one of these days he will have to go looking for an actual job. Perhaps, if it went really well, he’d also make a bit of an impression on Tim's new band.Thishowever - he looks down at the messy blond hair squished into his neck - was very muchnotpart of the plan.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor
Comments: 32
Kudos: 50
Collections: The Froger Week 2020





	Gone This Morning

**Author's Note:**

> **Froger Week 2020 Day 1 - Prompt: Smile Era**
> 
> So much thanks to @nastally for beta-reading 💕 You always keep me on my toes 😉  
> Also, thank you, @emmaandorlando, for being our gracious host 🙏

#### 27 February 1969

Freddie presses his wet fingers into his cheeks, welcoming the chill of the cold water against his flushed skin. He breathes in deeply through his nose, and the sound is loud in the quiet of the restroom. The relative quiet that is, with the loud music and shrieking chatter of the crowd spilling in through the door. 

He taps his foot to the beat and hums along under his breath as he turns off the tap and shakes the last droplets of water from his hands. It’s always a bit overwhelming, these occasions, but what an absolutely fab night it’s been! He finally got to see Tim’s band, and they’d been even better than Freddie expected. Still with lots of room for improvement, of course, but impressive nonetheless, holding their own against Joe Cocker and mopping the floor with the other support bands. And nice lads, too, very keen to hear his suggestions. Or the guitarist had been, at least. The drummer had been a bit distracted, which probably had something to do with that contingent of dolled-up birds fluttering around him. He looked the part, too, Freddie has to admit, with not a little envy.

He sighs at his reflection and tucks an unruly strand of hair back into place. No matter how much effort he puts into it, it never lies how he wants it to for long. 

He only hopes he didn’t come on too strong. It’s just that when he saw the three of them on stage, full of raw energy and unused potential, the ideas just started bubbling up inside him, and the urge to share them had overcome his usual reluctance around strangers. It had only been for a couple of minutes though, before the band had to head backstage to pack up. Freddie had lost sight of them and spent the rest of the night with some of his friends from Ealing, somehow ending up in this backyard nightclub he's not sure is entirely legal. 

Freddie pulls his lips over his teeth and stands up a little straighter, minutely adjusting the fit of his waist-length vintage jacket. Time to head back into the fray. He’s still got just enough small change tucked away in his pocket to stay for another drink, or perhaps a- 

The door bangs open with enough force that it bounces off the tiled walls and almost slams shut again. Freddie jolts and whirls around, staring at the man pushing his way inside. Dark blond hair in a grown-out Beatles cut, wide blue eyes, leather-trimmed gilet… He slides to a halt right in front of Freddie, almost losing his footing on the slick ceramic floor, and starts to retch behind the hand he’s got pressed to his mouth. 

Freddie realises two things at once. One, this is Roger, Smile’s drummer. And two, Freddie is going to end up with sick all over his only decent pair of shoes if he doesn’t act fast. 

Before he’s even had time to think it through, he has grabbed Roger’s shoulders with both hands, and turned him to face the rubbish bin between the two sinks. It’s all he has time to do. Roger sinks to his knees, instinctively grabs the edge of the bin with both hands, and leans over it as he starts to heave. 

The sounds and the smell are absolutely disgusting, but it’s not the first time Freddie has done this for someone. He’s also been the one on the floor once or twice before he learned his lesson, and knows from experience that the only thing worse than waking up after night like this, is waking up after a night like this with dried vomit all over one’s clothes and hair. So Freddie crouches next to him, and when Roger’s hair starts falling into his face, he reaches for it to make sure it doesn’t get in the way. It’s soft and slightly damp under his fingers. 

“Fuck,” Roger grunts into the rubbish bin with a gravelly voice when the convulsions subside. 

Freddie is about to help him up, but then Roger is in for a second round. Holding his hair with one hand, Freddie starts awkwardly patting his back with the others, biting back a ‘there there’ and silently asking himself what on earth he is doing. 

When the coughing and spluttering finally comes to an end, Roger draws back a little and lets his head hang down between his shoulders.

“Feeling better?” Freddie asks, a bit sheepishly.

Roger just groans and rolls his head from side to side. 

Freddie has little idea what to do next, but he can’t just up and leave the guy like this. “Can you stand up?” 

Again, Roger doesn’t answer, but he takes a hold of the sinks and pulls himself up to standing, swaying on his feet while Freddie hovers nearby. He looks dreadful. Pale as death himself, with dark circles under his eyes and drool clinging to the corners of his mouth. Roger wipes the back of his hand over his lips and grimaces. When he takes a step towards the sink, he stumbles and almost ends up on the floor again. 

Freddie reaches out and takes his arm, then leads him to the sink and turns on the tap. Instead of using his hands, Roger just sticks his entire head underneath it. Water runs through his hair and over his neck into his collar while he splutters. 

“Drink some, too,” Freddie suggests softly, staying close to make sure he can keep him from falling over should the need arise. 

Roger takes big, gulping swigs, only pausing to gasp for breath. When he finally straightens up again, he holds himself steady on the sink and peers at Freddie, shielding his eyes with one hand despite the fact the single overhead lightbulb produces no more than a dim glow. “Ta, mate”, he slurs and misses entirely as he tries to clap Freddie on the shoulder. 

If Freddie had still been in any doubt whether it’s alcohol or a stomach bug that has brought this on, this clears it up. The man in front of him is completely plastered. “You’re welcome,” he mumbles, thinking about what to do next. He should find Tim. Or Brian perhaps, or some other mates of Roger’s. He turns towards the door, internally debating whether he can leave Roger here or if he had better take him along. 

“Wai’.” Freddie looks back to find Roger squinting at him as if he’s having trouble getting his face into focus. “I know ya, don’ I? F- Frankie?”

“Freddie,” he corrects, trying not to be too disappointed. He can’t have made that much of an impression then. But on the other hand, Roger _does_ remember his face. Which is impressive given his state. “Listen, Roger, I gotta go find your mates. Can you stay here?”

Roger is shaking his head before Freddie has even finished speaking. “Nah. Nah I’ll…” His eyes go glassy for a moment and Freddie fears he might throw up again. “I’ll come with ya,” he announces and launches himself off the sink and straight into Freddie’s side. 

“Woah, yes, alright,” Freddie murmurs and grips Roger’s around the waist to keep him steady. At least he’s not that heavy, he thinks to himself as he steers Roger out of the bathroom. And also, Tim will owe him a massive favour for this. 

But they’ve barely made it three steps out of the men’s room when Roger stops and bends over, hands propped up on his thighs. 

“Oh no, nonono, not here!” Freddie tries to turn them back around, but Roger shakes his head. 

“Outside,” he mumbles between heaving, shivery breaths. 

Outside means leading Roger all the way through the crowded main room and the bar. It sounds impossible, but then his eye catches on a grimy, half-corroded emergency exit sign just a couple of yards ahead. “Yeah, come on,” he urges and drags Roger forwards. 

Roger groans, but he does straighten up and stumbles along. Freddie is half carrying him, struggling under the weight, as they make their way along a dimly-lit corridor, ending in a heavy, nondescript door. Praying it’s not locked, Freddie reaches for the handle. 

They tumble out into the frosty night air. Roger slumps with his back against the brick wall, letting his head fall back, eyes closed. Droplets of sweat have collected on his cheeks and forehead. But even in that state, there's something about his face that draws the eye. It's not a face that only looks good from one or two carefully curated, flattering angles, Freddie thinks mournfully. He looks awfully young too, twenty at most. 

"Everything alright, darling," Freddie asks when Roger's breathing has calmed down a little. 

Roger's eyes flutter open, wide and a little unfocused, as if he’s only now taking in where he is, and a troubled expression comes over his features. 

Freddie wonders belatedly whether he should have bit back the endearment - he rarely feels the need to, these days, but there’s something about this situation that is making him feel cautious. He doesn’t know this man at all, really. “I mean, I-”

A ragged gasp escapes Roger, as if he were in pain. He claps a hand over his mouth, blinks rapidly a couple of times and then his face sort of crumples up and he doubles over, elbows on his thighs. 

Freddie tries not to panic. Perhaps Roger is ill after all? Or he is tanked on something other than just alcohol? He takes a step forwards and stops himself just in time before he can put a hand on Roger’s shoulder, still feeing self-conscious. "Hey, what's-"

One moment later, he finds himself with an armful of Roger weeping dissolutely into the collar of his favourite jacket. Freddie looks about frantically for help, but this is really just a back alley, so there's not a soul around. 

"Sh-sh…" Roger tries to speak, but is quickly overtaken by another violent bout of sobbing. 

Freddie helplessly pats his hair, making nonsensical shushing noises. What on earth is going on? And what on earth is he supposed to do about it?

"She sh-should've been here," Roger gasps with a ragged, torn up voice. "She promised she'd b-be here."

Oh, dear God. All Freddie wanted was a carefree night out, to chat with his friends and listen to some music and forget about the depressing fact that one of these days he really will have to go looking for an actual job. Perhaps, if it went really well, he’d also make a bit of an impression on Tim's new band. This however - he looks down at the messy blond hair squished into his neck - was very much not part of the plan. 

Sincerely hoping that this is merely about a date not turning up, and not about an untimely deceased grandmother, he gently detaches himself from the bawling mess in his arms so that he can look into Roger's face. "Who did, love," he asks gently. Clearly, his endearments are not the problem here. 

"J-J…" Roger presses his eyes and lips tightly together, as if fending off another wave of tears. “Who, who breaks up with a guy right before a gig, huh?" he whines. "Who does somethin’ like that?”

Freddie just shakes his head. "Sorry," he mutters, trying not to betray his relief at Roger’s words. Not that breakups can’t be bad. But it’s something they all go through at times, a familiar kind of upset that Freddie has witnessed often enough to know what to say, in a way he wouldn’t if Roger had come out with… something more terminal and dreadful. 

"W-wanted to come see me play. Stay the weeken'. And then she jus'..." Roger shakes his head and stares at Freddie. Even with a blotchy, tear-streaked face and red-rimmed eyes, he still would have to beat them off with a stick. 

At least he's advanced from vomiting and crying to talking, which is a vast improvement. "What a skank," Freddie says, which earns him an immediate, uncoordinated punch in the shoulder and a waggling finger right in his face. 

"Shut up! She's amazin’," Roger berates him, almost poking him in the eye while still clinging to him for balance. "There’s jus’ no- no one like her."

Right, so perhaps that was not the right thing to say. "Sorry, looks like it was a bit early for that," Freddie mutters under his breath. 

"Huh?" Roger squints at him, as if that would allow him to hear better. 

"Nothing." Freddie pats him on the back and gives him a brief smile, trying to think of a way to get them both back inside. The damp cold is creeping into the sleeves and under the collar of his thin jacket. 

But Roger is still in his own little world.“‘n she doesn’t even have someone else," he laments. "Guess she, she just doesn’t l- like m-me any m-m-” Roger’s lips quiver and he looks seconds away from another breakdown. 

"You played a great show," Freddie exclaims, apropos of nothing, repeating exactly what he told him when they first met at the side of the stage. And it’s true. Smile absolutely rocked the auditorium during their short set, getting people off their seats and moving. The groove of the guitar, the driving beat of the drums and bass, three voices combining so well during the chorus. _But I'll never see again the planet earth, my earth_... "You and Tim and Brian, I mean. Really loud, too." 

It takes Roger a while to work out what he's talking about, but by the time he's done that, he's also forgotten that he was about to bewail the loss of his true love again. "You think so," he asks, and the sudden smile that lights up his face is nothing short of breathtaking. 

Freddie realises that they're still more or less hugging. He clears his throat and manoeuvres Roger towards the wall, so he can lean against that instead. 

"Absolutely. And writing your own material too! Very impressive." He tries to keep any trace of jealousy out of his voice. 

Roger's face falls. "Oh, tha's mos'ly Brian. Brian and Tim." He searches his pockets and after a couple of tries produces a tobacco pouch. "'m trying as well, but… 's bloody difficult, innit?"

"Fuck yes." Freddie agrees wholeheartedly. He's got so many ideas and snippets of melodies floating around in his brain, but putting them all together into a proper song is infinitely more difficult than it has any right to be. And the lyrics are even worse!

"You're writin’ too?"

Freddie nods, watching with fascination as Roger proceeds to roll a perfectly-shaped cigarette, as if he weren't so bloody hammered he can barely stand on his own. "I’m thinking of joining a band as well," he offers, keenly observing Roger's face for any kind of interest. Carefully making it sound as if it were only a matter of choosing between the many offers extended his way. 

Not that it matters much, as Roger’s attention is mostly taken up by the process of lighting his cigarette. "Ah yeah,” he says distractedly, sucking in a mouthful of smoke. “What d'you play? No wai'!" He holds up a hand. "Lemme guess…" After a moment's deliberation, he exclaims, "Keyboards!", and then is visibly pleased with himself when Freddie nods.

Freddie tries not to roll his eyes, because he told him and Brian that only a couple of hours ago. His friend Chris used to play keyboards for Smile until he left the group just a couple of days ago. Tim said they were happy to continue as a trio, but perhaps they secretly are looking for a replacement. Perhaps one that can add some vocals as well... "I sing too," he adds, with a furtive hope that Roger might still remember that come morning. 

"Any good?" Roger takes another puff of his cigarette, the orange glow illuminating his face. Then he holds it out to Freddie, who shakes his head. "Nah, I mean, can ya just hold it a sec?" 

Freddie takes the fag, holding it a bit awkwardly between his thumb and forefinger. "Very good," he says, trying to sound confident yet nonchalant. "In fact…" He trails off, his line of thought completely derailed as Roger turns to face the wall, fumbling with his fly. 

"Yeah?" Roger throws him a look over his shoulder, and for all his dexterity, this proves too much for his inebriated state, and he swerves sideways. 

Freddie quickly reaches out with his free hands to steady him - for the umpteenth time tonight - coming to stand at an angle and pointedly looking in the opposite direction while Roger empties his bladder with not a care in the world. 

Oh, blast it. Freddie takes a quick puff of the cigarette, only sucking the smoke into his mouth before exhaling again. "Yeah," he repeats. "So if you ever, you know…" What? Need a new singer? Smile has got one, a bloody good one too, and they only just started out. A backup? Something roils inside him at the thought. He doesn't want to be anyone’s bloody backup! 

But he's saved from finishing that sentence, because Roger is zipping himself up and holding out his hand for the fag. By the time he’s slumped against the wall again, he’s obviously lost track of the conversation. "Jus' wish Jill could have been here to see it," he sighs.

It takes all of Freddie's willpower to keep himself from snapping 'What, watch you take a leak?' But Roger looks so cast down, so sincere in his grief, that Freddie stops himself. And also, he wants to stay on good terms with him. Perhaps Smile will need a keyboardist at some point. Or someone to jump in at the last second should Tim ever happen to fall ill...

Knowing full well he's venturing out into a minefield, he asks what he hopes is an innocuous question. “What's she like then? Jill?”

“Short," comes the swift reply. "Shorter’n you even.”

Freddie draws himself up to his full height. As if Roger is that much taller. Especially slumped against the wall like this because he can barely stand on his own! 

“Shor' hair too. And very, _very_ shor' skirts. Such pretty legs. And she could _sing_!”

Freddie raises his eyebrows. “She sings too?” 

Roger nods eagerly, a blissful expression spreading over his face. “ _The Famous Jug Band_. All girl folk band. They were in _Melody Maker_ , even! Here, I’ll show you… oh.” Roger looks around as if he was looking for a copy of a magazine, only to remember then that he’s not at home. He pats himself down, just to make sure he hasn't pocketed a copy away somewhere. 

“‘s her birthday nex’ week too,” Roger mutters morosely. “Already got her a presen’.”

“Keep it then," Freddie suggests. "A surprise gift for yourself!”

Roger gives him a look. “‘s a skirt.”

Freddie rolls his eyes and holds out his hands as if to say ‘so what’. 

“With those tiny embroil- embro- With little birds on it. You know, for her band.”

“I’m sure it would look very fetching on you, darling!” Freddie gives him what is supposed to be playful poke in the shoulder, but it makes Roger veer sideways, arms flailing dramatically, requiring Freddie to step in again and make sure he doesn't keel over. 

Roger almost doesn’t seem to notice. He chews on his bottom lip for a minute, which makes him look like a six-year old deliberating a maths problem. 

“You’re righ’,” he declares finally. “Gonna wear the bloody thing to our next gig. Serves her righ'.”

“That’s the spirit!” Freddie chuckles, although he’s also getting a tad nervous. He _does_ have thoughts about Smile’s stage outfits (and hairstyles, and singing technique, and set list, and general performance), but he’s not sure how well the other two are going to take it if he’s the reason their drummer insists on wearing an embroidered skirt all of a sudden. They’d benefit from a bit of glamour, yes, but that would be several steps too far. 

Roger flicks the cigarette stub to the ground and watches the glow die away. “Never get hung up on a girl, Freddie," he says after a while, imparting life advice with all the sincerity of someone barely out of his teens. "They’ll use you up and spit you out like a, like a...” He looks around, until he hits on an inspiration. “Like a chewed up piece of gum.” Then he looks up directly at Freddie. “You got a girl?”

“No,” Freddie says, trying not to think too much about those depressing last weeks with Rosie, both of them too timid and too proud to admit it wasn't working, that it didn’t matter how much effort they put into it. 

“Yeah, thought so," Roger says with a knowing little nod. 

Now what on earth is that supposed to mean? It’s not that he attracts them in droves, but he never had trouble finding a girlfriend. Freddie tugs at his lapels and pulls his lips over his teeth, drawing his shoulders back. He knows his faults all too well, but he’s not _that_ unsightly. 

Roger shrugs at Freddie’s offended expression. “Ah, I didn’ mean…” He waves his hand about in a gesture that clears up absolutely nothing. “You just don’t seem the type, y’know.”

Freddie gapes at him. “Excuse me?” The type for what? The type for… girls? Freddie’s heart starts beating a hundred miles a minute, so hard he can hear the blood pounding in his ears.

“I always get mistaken for one.” Freddie is still trying to find the words to tell this rude man that he isn’t _one_ either, thank you very much, when Roger adds, “A girl, I mean. Half the blokes in that club must have hit on me at some poin’.” He gives Freddie a cheeky grin. “Guess I don’ have to worry 'bout you then.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Freddie replies frostily, showing a cool facade while his thoughts are racing. It’s not that he hasn’t been called that before. But every time, the words were hurled at him from mouths contorted with disgust (or the merciless black pits of his own mind), while Roger looks perfectly at ease, smiling at him in a way that seems almost… no, it’s not _flirtatious_ , of course it’s not that (and Freddie tries very much not to notice the jolt of excitement in his belly). But like it wouldn’t even matter all that much. 

“Ah, no offence, mate,” Roger says lightly, as if he’d only made a slight misjudgement about Freddie’s preferred drinks order. “In that case…” He leans closer to Freddie, and because he’s still not that steady on his feet ends up swaying so close that for one insane moment Freddie thinks he’s going to kiss him, and what on earth would he do then? He's already played through ten outrageous scenarios in his head when Roger speaks up. "I can introduce you, if you like,” he slurs with a knowing wink. 

“Introduce me,” Freddie repeats dumbly, staring helplessly into those impossibly big, long-lashed eyes. They're blue, he realises just then. Blue like the sky of an endless childhood summer.

“Know plenty of ‘em. Girls, that is. Good Catholic ones, most of ‘em, but once you get to know ‘em a little better…” That eyebrow waggle is a bit rich coming from someone who only two minutes ago had warned him off girls altogether. 

“So much for being hung up on the love of your life,” Freddie replies testily. It’s a bit mean, perhaps, but he’s feeling caught off guard, like he’s balancing on his toes on a rocking ship. He’s been almost vomited on and then Roger had insinuated all those _things_ about him, and then abandoned the matter as if it were of little consequence. And it’s cold out here and Roger hasn’t even thanked him, for any of it. 

The payback for his moment of pettiness is instant. Roger’s good mood vanishes and his face goes all wobbly again. “She was _special_ ,” he moans. “Yeah, we fough' a lot, but we always made up again. Fough’ for _hours_.” He stares at nothing for a moment until his eyes turn slightly misty. “Fucked for hours, too. Christ, she was fucking _wild_.”

Freddie clears his throat. He wonders if it’s just the drink, or if Roger simply doesn’t have any filters in general. 

Luckily Roger doesn’t seem to require an answer. He takes a deep breath and lets his head fall back, looking up at the stars. “I’m bloody starving,” he announces to the night sky, throwing another hairpin turn into the conversation. 

How he can even think about food after that episode earlier is beyond Freddie. 

“I know an excellent pie ‘n’ mash shop ‘round here. Or use’ to be here.” Roger starts staggering off in a direction Freddie is pretty sure is completely random. “Somewhere ‘round… there.”

Freddie starts after him. The money in his pocket might add up to a lager, but it’s not enough for a meal. “Shouldn’t we head back inside,” he suggests. 

“Nah. We shoul’ get something to eat. My treat.” Freddie is not sure that Roger even has any money on him, but Roger just slings an arm around his shoulders and drags both of them forward. “I like you,” he states. 

Freddie didn’t expect the bloom of warmth that declaration sets off in his chest. “I… thank y… I like you too,” he stutters. And it’s true, he realises, despite all his audacity and impudence. Or perhaps because of it. It would mean the world to him if Roger remembered him as more than just a convenient person to lean on when he was too drunk to stand. 

“Oh, there he bloody is!” 

They turn around to find Tim peering out the back door, with Brian right behind him. Their expressions are a mix of annoyance and relief, mirroring Freddie’s feelings exactly. He’s glad to have this drunken lout taken off his hands, of course he is, and he wasn’t all that keen on wandering about Earl’s Court looking for a - probably fictitious and certainly closed - pie and mash shop. But wouldn’t have minded spending a bit more time with Roger either. 

Wouldn’t have minded at all.

“Brimi! Timmy!” Roger beams, letting go of Freddie to stagger towards his friends. 

Tim sighs. “And that’ll be a pound in the ‘forbidden nick names’-jar. Woah there.” His eyes widen as he takes in the full extent of his friend’s inebriation, and quickly puts an arm around his shoulder. 

“Where were you two sneaking off to?” Brian asks. 

“Goin’ for a bite of Steak ‘n’ Kidney,” Roger answers, looking blissfully happy at the prospect. 

“Ah, Molly’s?” Tim instantly brightens up. The red glow on his cheeks tells Freddie he’s far from sober himself. 

“Tha’s the one!” 

“Hmm, wouldn’t mind a bite myself,” Tim muses. “What do you say, Bri?” 

Brian shrugs, but seems interested. “Yeah, why not?” At that, Tim and Roger set off together, while Brian just watches them for a moment with a fond, yet exasperated expression on his face. “Molly’s that way, though.” He points in the opposite direction from where they’re going. 

“I knew that,” Roger mumbles, as he and Tim reverse course. 

Brian rolls his eyes as they walk past. “‘Course you did,” he mutters, and falls into step behind them with a shake of his head.

Right then. Time for Freddie to head back inside. If he’s lucky, he’ll find someone who’s also planning to crash at Chris’s place tonight, so he doesn’t have to walk all the way to Shepherd’s Bush alone. He wraps his arms around himself to keep out the biting cold as he makes his way to the door.

“Aren’t you coming?” 

When Freddie turns, Brian is looking back at him with a bit of a confused expression. At his words, Roger and Tim also stagger to a halt.

Freddie can’t deny how pleased he is that Brian was apparently prepared to take him along. But it’s a band thing now. And he’s still broke. So he jerks his thumb in the direction of the entrance. “I think I better…” 

“‘Course you’re coming,” Roger exclaims, while Tim just raises his eyebrows expectantly. 

Freddie hesitates another moment, but when none of them look like they’re just waiting for him to scramble, he nods. Perhaps he can scrape together enough for some mash, at least. “Course I’m coming,” he says, echoing Roger’s words and walking towards them. 

Roger breaks out in another brilliant smile, before turning to Tim. “Great chap, Freddie is,” he lectures him. “Didya know he plays the piano, too?”

Tim snorts. “Yes, I did, believe it or not. Come on.” 

He tightens his grip on Roger and steers him along the narrow, in the right direction this time, while Freddie falls into step next to Brian. They walk in silence for a moment, listening to the rambling conversation of their friends ahead of them. 

“Thanks for taking care of him,” Brian says.

Freddie shrugs, trying to make it look at the same time like it wasn’t a big deal, but still something Brian should remember him favourably for. “Sure.”

“Hope he wasn’t too much of a nuisance.”

“Oh no, he…” Freddie reviews the last half-hour or so. “Well, he was a bit.”

Brian laughs, a soft, melodious sound, that makes Freddie join in automatically. 

“Yes, he can be a little…” Brian trails off.

“Yes,” Freddie agrees, and they share a conspiratorial smile. 

“So,” Brian says as they turn into Brompton Road. “You had some ideas about a song, you said?”

**Author's Note:**

> So, this account is - of course - fictional. It's based on the following three stories that I sort of mashed together:
> 
> Jill was Roger’s girlfriend from 1965 until sometime in early ‘69. Denise Craddock, who would become Roger and Freddie’s flatmate at Ferry Road, says that “she was the girl who broke Roger’s heart. I remember him being really cut up over her” _(Queen in Cornwall)_. 
> 
> Also in early ‘69, Brian met Freddie Bulsara: “I was first introduced to Freddie Mercury—a paradoxically shy yet flamboyant young man—at the side of the stage at one of our early gigs as the group “SMILE.” He told me he was excited by how we played, he had some ideas—and he could sing! I'm not sure we took him very seriously, but he did have the air of someone who knew he was right.” _(Brian May[in 2011](https://www.google.com/doodles/freddie-mercurys-65th-birthday))_
> 
> And finally, on 27 February 1969, Smile played at a charity gig at the Royal Albert Hall alongside other groups: “Roger was out all night after that gig - celebrating probably - though I caught up with him again the following morning. That weekend one of the Sunday glossy magazines - Observer probably - described Smile as the ‘loudest band in the western world’.” _(John Snell, quoted in Queen in Cornwall)_.  
> “See What a Fool I’ve Been” was part of the set list. There’s some [silent film footage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DQ0axzSjR8c) shot by Doug Puddifoot.


End file.
